


Burning Bright

by LittleSammy



Series: Dreams [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/pseuds/LittleSammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the other kind of Paris story. The kind where nothing but bad dreams and angst happens. And it's not what you might think now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: NCIS, just before the episode 7x13 "Jet Lag". Yes, spoilers for that ep and the beginning of season 7.
> 
> warnings &amp; rating: Tony/Ziva, but not Tiva yet.
> 
> This is the other kind of Paris story. The kind where nothing but bad dreams and angst happens. And it's not what you might think now.

There are certain sounds Ziva David has learned to ignore easily. The first of those was the wind, howling through walls that have seen generations of dust come and go. Close on its heels was the scuttling of rats, unless they got too close. The hard slap of flesh or leather on raw skin. Sobs.

 

She still wakes instantly, like a snap of her fingers, if she is touched or someone walks by, because these are the things that keep her alive even if she doesn't care to be. But the sound of someone gasping, of the nameless Arab beside her tossing in his sleep, in the throes of yet another nightmare... these are the sounds that are best ignored because there is no point in being kept awake by something that returns every night with the precision of a Swiss clockwork.

 

She does drift closer to the surface of waking eventually because he sounds so different tonight. His gasps are mixed with hoarse whispers, and she frowns in her drowsiness. He has never spoken in his nightmares before, and she isn't sure if she actually knows what his voice sounds like, even after what must be weeks now. She has learned not to care, but if he keeps this up, she might have to silence him because she has no desire to have him bring in the guards.

 

And then he screams, yells her name, and she is wide awake all of a sudden, her heart jackhammering in her chest, because the nameless man beside her is Tony, and she is not in Somalia, but in a rather lovely hotel room in Paris, of all things.

 

She feels him jerk beside her, and her head whips around while she blinks and tries to see what's wrong in the dim light. His body is rigid, his legs are trapped in the sheets, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulge, so stiff with tension that it looks like he is in pain.

 

"Tony," she says, and she has to clear her throat because almost no sound comes out at first. He doesn't react, just throws his head back, shakes it violently, and she reaches over and puts a hand to his bare chest. Feels his heart beat hard and fast against the palm of her hand. And she says his name again and puts her other hand against his cheek.

 

He jerks awake hard at that, but doesn't register it right away. She leans over him, and his hands fly to her face, grab her, and he gasps for air, blinks rapidly. Hangs on to her for dear life.

 

She grabs his wrists, tries to get him to notice her, but he is still caught too deeply in the dream world, and his eyes are wide and stricken. His lips work wordlessly now, and he is so close to her that she can feel him breathe panicked words into her face. There is a tear rolling down his cheek, and that is when he finally realizes that he is awake.

 

A moment later he recognizes her, and he gasps as if in shock. He keeps touching her face, but no longer clutching her as tightly now, and while his breathing slows, she watches him with a confused frown. Keeps holding his wrist because that is the feeling of the Tony she has known for years.

 

The one she has never seen before takes a deep breath eventually and lets go of her. Pulls away from her harshly, like touching her skin has burnt him, and she has to let go of his wrist. He scoots back until he can sit and lean his back against the headboard, and she watches him quietly while he runs a still shaking hand through his hair.

 

"I'm sorry," he says after a long while and rubs his eyes, and she isn't sure what he feels sorry for. Her cheeks burn where he has grabbed her, maybe that is what he means.

 

"How often..." she starts, asking even though it feels all wrong for her to want to know, and she can't remember her own voice ever being so hesitant.

 

"Every single night," he replies, not even letting her finish the question.

 

In a way, she is glad he is brushing her off because this would lead somewhere dangerous. But it is also too big a thing to ignore, and so she licks her lips and asks, because she has to, "And what are they about?"

 

"You, mostly."

 

"I'm flattered."

 

"You, dying in my arms," he continues, and she is so shocked by how flat his voice sounds then that it takes her a few seconds to take in the actual meaning of his words. "You, just a pile of clean-picked bones, left to rot on the bottom of the sea because you went down with the _Damocles_ after all. You, with a bullet hole in your pretty head. Most of the nights Saleem is slitting your throat, though, and your blood is spraying all over me, and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it."

 

She sits down hard at that and breathes deeply. It isn't what she expected and certainly not something she ever wanted to hear. Her own hands are starting to shake then, and she tightens them into fists to stop it. She looks down at the sheets, how they are all tangled up between them, and she just knows that he mirrors her right now and is trying his best not to meet her eyes.

 

"This isn't healthy, Tony," she says, and her voice is not much more than a whisper.

 

"Trust me, if I could find the off switch, I'd flip it in a heartbeat."

 

She looks at him then, sees him stare at the wall behind her with all the concentration he can bring up. And for once, she is sure that this is not something that should be glossed over and ignored until it goes away again. Because it won't. And because she wants the real Tony to come back to her, not the one that looks so stricken. So she moves until she sits right by his side, her hip brushing his through the thin sheets, and she puts her hand to his chest again. Tries to will his heartbeat to calm down for her.

 

He flinches hard at the unexpected touch and stares at her, and he isn't fast enough to get his defenses back in place. There are so many things unsaid in his eyes right then, all that ever was between them, riding low under the surface at this point in time. Her own eyes widen at the raw pain she sees, and her heart misses a beat when she finally, finally comes back to a simple truth that - even though she has voiced it once before - she has not really understood for what it was at the time.

 

"So you had come to die with me?" Her voice is quiet, calm, but she knows that he can hear the utter shock gushing through her anyway.

 

He still meets her eyes, but she can watch all of his walls come up again, one by one, and while she herself feels ripped open and laid bare like never before, he tilts his head and says, "That wouldn't have been very fair to McGee, now, would it..."

 

"That is not what I asked."

 

He leans his head back then and stares at the ceiling, and she knows that if he could have drawn further away from her physically, he would have. "Sorry, doll face. I think I'm all out of truth serum now."

 

She feels his heart beat harshly against her palm. Her throat is a lump of old sand, and her eyes burn with something she can't remember ever having heard of before. "Tony..."

 

"Don't you ever dream about it?" he interrupts her, which is just as well because she can't find the right words after all. And she is strangely glad that he picked a question where she doesn't even have to lie to him.

 

"I have not dreamed a single night since I set foot on the _Damocles_."

 

He laughs at that, a short, aggressive bark that is as far from amusement as a laugh can get, then he meets her eyes again. "And you're mocking my approach?"

 

And she thinks that maybe he understands her better now than anyone else ever has.

 

His heartbeat calms eventually under her hand, and strangely, that makes her own speed up. His pulse is steady against her fingers, and she has to fight the urge to move her hand across his skin, to really touch him, the way that goes beyond mere comfort and means something that they are both not ready for.

 

He is the one that moves in the end. He slides back down on the bed again and pulls her to his chest while he does, and for some reason, she follows the movement and falls into the embrace easily, resting her head against his chest while his arms come up around her. He presses his face into her neck, and she can tell he has to work hard on not crushing her. And then he frowns, and she feels it because he is suddenly distracted.

 

"Since when do you smell like apples?"

 

"Since when do you know how I smell?" she replies, proud that her voice sounds almost steady, not showing the confusion that has taken hold of her and leaves her feeling so very weak.

 

He murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like _day after I first met you_, and her heart skips another beat at that, not sure if she heard him right, not willing to ask in case she did. And he sighs and closes his eyes and holds her tight. Presses a soft kiss to her tousled hair while his hand strokes her back, and she knows he does that as much for her comfort as for his own.

 

"I wish you dreams of fluffy clouds that look like happy baby sheep," he whispers against her cheek eventually, and she laughs and draws a somewhat shaky breath.

 

"Keep your nightmares to yourself, DiNozzo. I don't do sheep."

 

And he laughs, too, while she relaxes against his chest. Keeps stroking her back until neither of them is sure who is the first to fall asleep.


End file.
